


12 Days of Christmas Challenge - Markiplier x Reader Imagines

by orphan_account



Category: Markiplier x Reader - Fandom, mark fischbach - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Christmas Challenge, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, F/M, markiplier/reader - Freeform, markiplier/you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:02:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8851258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which I post an imagine every day for 12 days leading up to Christmas!





	1. FAQ

Hello! Welcome to my 2016 Christmas Imagine Challenge.  **Our theme this year is Christmas songs!**  I cannot go without crediting my wonderful companion, Bri (captain-ass-ass.tumblr.com), for suggesting this idea to me earlier this year. Every imagine is based around a Christmas song to which I’ve compiled a playlist, [which you can find here.](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fplaylist%3Flist%3DPLhq5JBBmeYcIy3riqy-Ls_sbuzGj3X52l%26spfreload%3D5&t=NTMwMGM1NTM1ZjdmMzkwMTdiNDY2ODEzM2M4OTkzMTZkOTY1YzYxNyxiRjZwbnVFdQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AucnCk6ebLMlj85iavaAglw&m=1) I highly suggest listening to the playlist while you read each imagine, as it will only heighten the Christmas spirit!

If you’ve found yourself with questions about this challenge, I’ve compiled an FAQ to help sort out some confusion:

> _**Is this a continuation of last year’s challenge?** _

No, it’s not. It’s still Markiplier x Reader, but it’s a fresh start. You don’t have to read last year’s challenge to understand this year’s challenge.

> _**Where did you find this challenge?** _

After the success of my 25 Days of Christmas Challenge from last year ([which you can find here](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.wattpad.com%2Fstory%2F55748529-25-days-of-christmas-markiplier-imagines&t=MzEzYWMxZTc2MDJjMjk5YzQzMzUyY2UxMDhhMTVhMmMzNmM4NzQzMCxiRjZwbnVFdQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AucnCk6ebLMlj85iavaAglw&m=1)), I decided that I wanted to do it again in 2016. However, the challenge was a literal challenge, and I found it quite hard to post every single day. 

Like I do, I looked to Bri for ideas to remedy this situation, and she suggested that I make it a playlist challenge, with imagines centered around Christmas songs. As there’s already a song called “12 Days of Christmas,” I figured that 12 imagines was completely manageable.

Long story short: Bri sparked the idea and I executed it (hopefully).

> _**Why Christmas? Why not other religious holidays?** _

Because of the fact that Mark celebrates Christmas and that I (the writer) celebrate Christmas, I decided that it is the only religious December holiday that I am comfortable writing about.

> _**When will you be updating?** _

One imagine will be posted every day starting on the 14th of December and ending on Christmas (25 of December).

> _**What types of Imagines are you doing?** _

Four out of the 12 imagines will be smut, but the rest will be fluff.

> _**Where do these stories take place?** _

Ohio! Being from Michigan, Christmas, for me, always means snow. It doesn’t snow in Los Angeles, so I’ve placed the story back in Ohio, much like I did last year.

> _**Will you be taking requests?** _

Because a challenge of this capacity requires a careful timeline, I will not be accepting requests for this particular work. I have already planned out each day’s imagine and most likely will not have time to fulfill other Christmas requests.

> _**Can Mark drink?** _

Yes. When he drinks alcohol in these imagines, he will not die. Don’t worry.

**Thank you so much for reading! I hope you all have a safe, cozy, and happy holiday season, regardless of which holiday you celebrate. Enjoy!**


	2. It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❊ It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas / everywhere you go / Take a look at the Five-and-Ten / glistening once again / with candy canes and silver lanes aglow ❊

Whether you knew it or not, Mark loved how much you loved Christmas. He loved how excited you were when the trees in town were gradually wrapped in twinkle lights, slowly but surely turning Main Street into a scene straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. You would excitedly squeeze his knee as he drove to dinner, squealing at the wreaths on the shop doors, pointing out how every tree looked as though it had just snowed. He would smile and nod at your enthusiasm, laughing slightly when you pulled your phone out to snap a couple of pictures for your friends. “It’s all just so beautiful!” you would sigh wistfully, and he would agree, although he wasn’t speaking of the lights.

He tried to mask his delight whenever you brought home another decoration for the house - it wasn’t like you hadn’t already bought an entire store’s worth. Although he was _supposed_ to be annoyed at the purchase, he couldn’t help but welcome your giddiness. Admittedly, the snow bird you’d brought home last week _did_ make him smile every time he looked at. After all, it did have a plaid hunting cap _and_ a canteen. He would never tell you how at home he felt once you pulled out the Christmas decorations, straightening and moving bits and pieces around for a full week, wanting to make sure everything was _just_ _right_. He would never tell you, but the fact that he never complained was indication enough.

He waited all year for your winter wardrobe to appear - oversized sweaters paired with fuzzy socks and beanies with large pom-poms attached - because you looked so damn comfy all the time. If he weren’t careful, he could spend all day thinking of how lovely it would be to sneak his cold hands beneath the hem of your cream-colored cable knit jumper, causing you to squeak and fall into his chest, your hair splaying across his own face in a defenseless attempt at escape. Oftentimes in the month of December, he had to snap himself out of the daydream of snuggling up to you underneath a down comforter, bathing in the smell of French vanilla, clean linen, and something spicy that reminded him of Christmases at home. He pulled you back into bed on Sunday mornings, wanting just a few more minutes of your warmth beneath the plaid sheets. You obliged, tucking your nose in the hitch of his jaw as you drew circles on the forearm he had laid over your hip.

Even rainy days were a gift with your Christmas spirit around. You used them as an excuse to start up the fireplace, dimming the lights in the living room so a warm glow replaced the atmosphere of cold harshness a winter rain is notorious for. You’d make hot chocolate on the stovetop - the kind made with real chocolate shavings, rather than powder - covering the top of the mug with whipped cream and sprinkles, walking carefully to the couch where Mark would be sitting. You would request a kiss before you sat down next to him, sinking into the plushness of the over-stuffed sofa cushions as you tried not to spill the drink all down the front of you. The two of you would use the opportunity to catch up on Netflix shows, intertwining your legs once you were finished with your cocoa. Chica would lie on her bed near the Christmas tree, contentedly gnawing on a new bone while your rescued orange tabby cat, Linus, snoozed happily on the padded window seat.

And although he loved how much you loved Christmas, he was hesitant to support your request to put the Christmas tree up before Thanksgiving. You argued that all of the major department stores had released their Christmas commercials and when you stopped at Target for eyeliner and wine, all of their holiday decor was set up in the back of the store. You whined, nearly begging him on your hands and knees, using Chica and Linus against him. _Don’t you want our children to have a happy Christmas? Don’t you want them to experience Christmas for as long as they can? Their lives are so much shorter than ours!_ And, on top of that, he couldn’t argue with your most damning reason - you had already given up part of your traditional Christmas experience for him, as he had become allergic to real pine within the last couple of years. Last year, you were forced to buy a fake tree after he quarantined himself to the basement, as it was the only room he could stand to be in without sneezing.

He eventually caved and agreed to putting up the tree the week before Thanksgiving. The second he nodded his head, you were off to the basement, tinsel and colored lights draped across your shoulders as you yanked the large Christmas tree box up the stairs and into the living room. Mark stood and laughed before lending a hand, the flurry of your excitement leaving him in a tailspin as he lugged boxes of ornaments up from the basement.

“Okay, what first?” he asks, rubbing his hands on his thighs.

“Oh! I know!” you skitter into the kitchen, sliding in your fuzzy socks towards the large island in the middle. “I was saving this for when we put up the tree, but I got so excited because I didn’t _actually_ think you would agree to putting it up today,” you call out  over your shoulder as you grab an orange. You smile at Mark’s face as he enters the kitchen, his eyes drawn to your hands as you roll the fruit on the counter. “Mulled wine! We can get all of the decorations ‘n’ stuff in order while we wait for it on the stove. Can you get the medium stock pot for me?”

At this point, if there’s anything Mark has learned, it’s to not question anything you’re excited about. While he searches for the pot, you begin slicing the orange on a cutting board near the sink, humming along to a Christmas song in your head. You sway your hips as Mark steps behind you to place a kiss on your shoulder, the bulky sweater you were sporting today sliding down to reveal an amount of skin he couldn’t resist. He hugs you from behind before you ask him - more than once - to fetch the wine bottle in the corner, as he had preoccupied himself with creating a trail of kisses up to your ear, humming the same Christmas song against your skin.

“Babe,” you smile, moving your hand so you could pinch his hip. “Go and grab the wine for me. We’re never gonna get any work done if you keep this up,” you grab his sides and he moves out of your reach, one of his only weaknesses being your fingertips grasping onto his ticklish torso.

“...didn’t even really _want_ to put the tree up today, but I guess if you _say_ so,” he grumbles, grabbing the neck of the red wine bottle. “And who says we wouldn’t get any work done? I’d put in plenty of work. Plenty of work into _you_.”

You choose to ignore his comment as he hands off the wine to you, stepping up so you can kiss him on the cheek in response. You wink at him, knowing that if he didn’t really _want_ to put up the tree today, he wouldn’t have agreed to it. Busying yourself with gathering all of the ingredients, you don’t realize the wrinkle in the middle of your forehead that comes from concentration. But Mark does, and for a second, he has a notion to wipe the wrinkle away with the pad of his thumb, but it’s just so damn cute, he leaves it there. You’ll never know the extent of his admiration for you - never consciously, at least. A lot of times, you’ll catch him staring at you and place a warm palm against his cheek in response, but you don’t realize that he was off in a silent tangent about how much he cares for you, how much he _loves_ you. It was hard for him to put into words how much he truly cared for you - how could string of words and phrases possibly convey how lucky he felt waking up next to you every morning? How could simple letters equate what he felt for you?

And, truthfully, _he’ll_ never know how much you love _him,_ either. You’re desperate for the wine to come out perfect, hence the furrow in your brow. You know that he doesn’t have to put up with all of your frantic tendencies - your obsession with holidays and celebrations - but he does anyway. You try to make them special for him, try to pay attention to the details so that he enjoys himself, but you’re always worried that he’s only putting on a front of excitement because it’s what expected. But, to be fair, it _has_ been five years - if Mark were truly bored of the situation, he would’ve left ages ago.

“The recipe doesn’t call for cinnamon sticks, but I’m going to put one in anyway,” you think out loud, snapping Mark out of his stupor. “Can’t go wrong with cinnamon, hmm?”

You look up from the pot at the cooktop and smile as you drop a stick of cinnamon into the wine. Mark smiles at you with a closed mouth, nodding. Before you can place the oranges into the mixture, he hugs you from behind once again, resting his chin on your shoulder. It’s a hug so tight, you don’t question it.

“I love you,” he says against your neck.

You pause your movements, turning your head slightly so you can see him. “Love you, too, Moo,” you smirk, placing a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose. He smiles at your nickname for him - Markimoo had gotten too troublesome to say, so you had shortened it to simply “Moo” years ago. He’d never told you how much he loved that, either.

“‘M gonna go turn some music on,” he mutters after nuzzling your neck.

As you busy yourself with stirring the wine, _It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas_ fills the surround-sound system of the main level of your house. You had scoffed at the notion that the two of you absolutely _needed_ a surround-sound stereo system in your house, telling Mark that if he really wanted it, he could deal with the install by himself. You figured that would be the end of it, as Mark had turned into someone who didn’t like speaking on the phone or setting up appointments ever since moving back to Ohio, but when the technicians showed up bright and early that next Monday morning, all you could do is sit back and watch, amazed anything had come of his desire. Now, three months later, you were pleased with the results, able to listen to music wherever you were.

“You’re no Scrooge,” you pout as you walk into the living room, finding Mark splayed out across the couch. “You pretend that you’re not into all of this silly stuff for the holidays, but I know you really love it.”

“It’s a give-and-take kind of thing,” he groans as you lay on top of him, adjusting to your body as you rest all of your weight on him. “Like, you _give_ me mulled wine, I _take_ the mulled wine. You _give_ me the visual of bending over to get more ornaments, I _take_ in the view while I sit on the couch, drinking the mulled wine.”

You gasp, digging your fingers into his torso, giggling at his reaction. “You are so _naughty_!” and, taking the opportunity to overpower him, you playfully grasp his chin with your hand, kissing him square on the lips in a quick succession of four pecks. “...good thing you’re so nice about all of my Christmas spirit, otherwise I wouldn’t be so nice about your perverted tendencies.”

“They’re not _perverted tendencies_ if we’ve been dating for five years,” he grunts as he pats your butt, rolling his eyebrows as you gape at him. “You’d be _so_ disappointed if I weren’t all touchy-feely with you. You‘d be all _Oh, Mark, please grope me like you used to_ , and then I would _have_ to because it’s unpleasant to see you in such distress.”

Your jaw drops, feigning shock, because...well, _yeah_. You would kind of miss it if he didn’t randomly grope you from time to time, as it had become sort of par for the course throughout your relationship. Instead of confessing, you grumble your way off of him to a standing position next to the couch, hands on your hips.

“‘Kay, let’s go!” you clap your hands, ready to get down to business.

Shimmying to the Christmas music playing overhead, you begin snapping off the lid of the bin that houses your Christmas tree, smiling at the three-part artificial evergreen boughs within the container.

“Have to set up the stand first, sweets,” Mark says behind you before lifting himself up from the couch. His hair twists and turns on the top of his head as he straightens his t-shirt. “Then put the tree skirt over the stand. ‘member last year when we forgot and you had to climb underneath the branches?” He smiles at the memory of you crawling out from beneath the tree, your hair mussed and cheeks red. You huffed and puffed the entire time, vowing that you would _never_ forget to put the skirt on before assembling the tree again.

“ _Shit!_ ” you stage whisper, pointing at him in agreeance. “Will you put the stand up while I search for it? Can’t ever remember which box I put it in…”

You twist your lips into a sideways pucker as you leap around the living room from box to box, mentioning that _yes_ , leaping was completely necessary under these conditions after Mark questioned your acrobatics. You cheer in delight once you’ve located the red sequin tree skirt, remembering how little convincing it took Mark to agree to buying it two years ago. He liked how it glittered under the lights, so, _yeah_ , of course you could get it for the tree.

The two of you are notably silent as you organize the decorations, save for the belting out of classic Christmas carols when absolutely necessary. It was comfortable, the lack of conversation between the two of you. It was the result of years of changing clothes in front of one another, of you waking up and realizing that you had drooled on his shoulder in your deep-sleep the night before, of you promising that you still loved him while you cleaned up the evidence of his bad stomach bug after he hadn’t quite made it to the toilet - you didn’t need to talk to each other to communicate. It was routine by now, how you worked side-by-side with little commentary.

“The wine!” you gasp after checking the lights you had delicately restrung last year. “Almost forgot!”

You hop up from your seated position next to the bare tree and slide into the kitchen once again. Thankful that it hadn’t been ruined, you lift the top of the pot and smell the delicious concoction of red wine, mulling spices, oranges, and cinnamon. If it tasted half as good as it smelled, you were sure that it came out perfect. Grabbing a ladle from the utensil holder next to the cooktop, you stir the wine before pouring two mug-fulls in the Christmas cups you were so fond of. A penguin for you and Santa for Mark. Carefully tiptoeing into the living room as you hum

“Careful, it’s hot,” you smile while you carefully tiptoe into the living room, humming along to the song that was playing. You demand a kiss from Mark before handing off the cheerful mug, smiling against his lips when he obliges happily.

“Thanks,” he smirks, closing his eyes as he takes in the aroma of the wine. “Smells delicious.”

“Welcome,” you nod, crossing back over to where you had set up shop.

As you work on the lights, Mark sets his wine on the mantel and gets to work on fluffing the branches of the tree - the tree you spent hours looking for, the tree you settled for when he could no longer battle with the real pine. He’s thankful for you in ways you’ll never know, ways that you may _never_ know.

“Thank you for helping me,” you say as you stand next to him, the lights in a loop around your hand. “Even though you didn’t want to put up the decorations this early,” you shrug your shoulders, reaching out to straighten a wayward bough. “Means a lot. Putting up with me, ‘n’ all.”

He looks at you then, nearly heartbroken. It’s incredulous, really, the thought that he was doing you a _favor_ by giving the go-ahead for decorating. He’s crushed that you thought he considered this evening a chore - an act of _putting up with you_ . It wasn’t as if this were torture, you making spiced wine for him in between bopping around the living room in a spirit that could only be compared to drops of sunlight sprinkling against moving water. He hurts thinking that you were under the impression that he would rather be doing _anything else_ at this moment, when in reality, it was the only place he’d choose to be over and over again - with _you._ Being with you always won out over everything else and he would just as well not have it any other way.

“Wha?” he moves to look at you, dumbfounded. “Baby, I’m not doing this because I feel like I _have_ to. Maybe the week before Thanksgiving is a _little_ early for Christmas decorations, but I’m not “putting up with you” - like, _really_? Please don’t tell me you really think that,” he pulls you towards him, his chest warm and firm underneath your cheek.

“Okay,” you smile into his long-sleeved henley shirt. “I don’t.”

“Seriously,” he grasps your shoulders and gently pushes you away until he can look you in the eyes. “I love this,” he glances around. “I love _you_.”

“I love you, too,” you blink at him with wide eyes.

“Merry Christmas, damnit!” Mark shouts, raising his fists in the air.

You laugh and kiss him once more before really getting down to work. By the end of the night, the two of you are giggly off of the warm wine, mouths stained purple from sipping throughout the evening. You convince him to sit on the couch with every light off but the tree, your faces illuminated by the colorful lights strung throughout the artificial branches.

And, while you may have put it up a little too early, the tree is more gorgeous to you than ever - you think the wine may have something to do with that - but you’re not one to deny the magic of the holiday season, especially with the handsome man sat next to you with a propensity to make everything he does into a momentous occasion. You’re in love with him and everything he is, regardless of your differing opinions on when Christmas decorations should or should not be put up.

  
Merry Christmas, indeed.


	3. Cold December Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❊ There’s nothing else that you will need this Christmas / won’t be wrapped under a tree / I want something that lasts forever / So kiss me on this cold December night / They call it the season of giving / I’m here, I’m yours for the taking / They call it the season of giving / I’m here, I’m yours ❊

It was hard for you to believe that he was yours.

You found it hardest to believe during times of silence, when he didn’t know you were falling in love with him all over again. It was when he was reading in bed, his eyebrows knitted together in thought while he bit his lip at an interesting anecdote; it was when he was in the middle of cooking dinner and concentrated on making even slices to the green bell pepper on the cutting board in front of him; it was when he was responding to emails with his laptop perched on his thighs, placing a soft hand on Chica’s head every so often as she lies next to him; it was the rare occasion in which you woke up before him and got to see how peacefully he slept, his dark hair falling over his forehead in a contrasted tuft against his ever-tanned skin. In these moments, it was difficult to grasp that he had chosen you - it was difficult to grasp the _why._ Out of everyone in the world, he chose _you_ to be his person.

You never forgot how lucky you were to have him.

After shooting him a quick text letting him know that you would be late coming home, the only thing you could think about was climbing into bed with him and having him rub out all of the kinks in your tense shoulders. Once you finally returned home from the busiest and most stressful day of the month, you sigh and let out a slight moan when you see that Mark was fixing his famous chicken and dumplings.

“You have no idea how grateful I am at this very moment,” you groan, walking over to where he was stirring the large pot full of your dinner. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ ,” you whimper, wrapping your arms around his torso.

He smiles and kisses the crown of your head while rubbing your back. “Figured you could use some good food after the day you’ve had,” he says into your hair. “Go and get your sweats on and we’ll eat.”

You kiss him quickly before thanking him once more. By the time you’ve taken your makeup off, thrown your hair into a messy ponytail, and dressed in a pair of leggings and an old, oversized sweatshirt from your college days, your mouth is watering at the thought of devouring the first full meal you’ve had that day. You bound down the steps, your energy renewed by the promise of food and catching up with the man who’d prepared it for you.

You grin when you see that he’s already dished out a bowl for you, poured a glass of wine, and has it all set out neatly in front of one of the stools at the island in your kitchen. “Thank you, babe,” you sigh as you sit down. “You have no idea how much I needed this.”

“Just a little appreciation dinner,” he sits down next to you after filling a glass with tap water. “You’ve been working so hard lately and it’s been so cold outside, I figured chicken and dumplings would help,” he smirks sideways as you take your first bite, closing your eyes at the homemade dumplings and broth. “‘N’ I guess I get a little sentimental about us during this time of year,” he shrugs, digging in to his own dish.

“Whysat?” you mumble out of the side of your mouth.

“Two years ago. It could’ve all ended a lot differently, yeah?”

You nod, remembering how you barely made it through the toughest six months of your relationship. It wasn’t something you typically enjoyed remembering, as it was a time period full of scarcely manageable days and profoundly lonely nights.

It was the toughest decision you had made thus far, leaving everything in California behind for a more humble life in Ohio. But, you’d figured it this way: you either stayed in California and lost Mark, or you moved to Ohio with the promise of forever biting at your heels. Losing Mark was not an option, so you bargained with him - as long as the two of you could spend every Thanksgiving and every other Christmas in California with your mom, you were okay with moving to Ohio with him. Starting a life - dare you think _family_? - in a more rural state surely had its advantages. Less traffic, less noise, less expenses - not to mention actual seasons.

...but life as you knew it was in California. Although your family was spread across the country, you’d always felt at home underneath the west coast sun, with the hustle and bustle of the city always there to comfort you when you felt lost or alone. The only times you had ventured to Ohio were with Mark. You didn’t know what the hell a buckeye was for the first twenty years of your life, and you were quite contented with that, thank you very much.

After the decision was made, the two of you flew out to Ohio three times in search of a home. It would be the first place the two of you would share together, which softened the blow of moving across the country just a bit. You’d landed on a colonial-style house that had a large front porch and a big yard with plenty of room for Chica to run. You hadn’t always been one to support suburban life, but the neighborhood was safe and was close to shopping centers. It was spacious, your new home, and you could see yourself decorating every room to each one of your specifications, which, admittedly, excited you.

On the flight home, you had to choke back tears after realizing that the next time you’d make this journey back to California, it would be Thanksgiving.

It came about in a less-than-congenial scenario, your move. Mark had to tie up some loose ends in California, but you had already accepted a job in Ohio. It was a position you found yourself proud to have nabbed - executive assistant of the head of human resources in one of the biggest community development financial partners in the Midwest. You felt good about working for a company who financially supported the needs of various charities and communities. You knew your position offered room to grow, and now that you had proven you were worthy of more responsibility, you had been named project manager on three large clients this year alone.

Regardless of your excitement about nabbing the job, you still felt a certain dread around moving out to Ohio without Mark. He promised that it would only be two weeks - _tops_ \- and that you shouldn’t even unpack much in the new house without him, considering he’d be there to help so soon.

But, as life would have it, two weeks turned into four. And four weeks turned into a month and a half. And a month and a half turned into -- it turned into fights, turned into hang ups and promises of break ups, turned into you wanting to put the house up for sale because, _fuck_ , _he’s never going to move out here after all._ How could you have been so stupid? How could you have trusted that this would’ve all worked out in the end - you moving to an unfamiliar place _alone_?

He flew out to visit you after you rejected his calls for three days straight, finally fed up with the man who had plopped you in Ohio for the last four months without him. Your initial reaction to his physical presence was that of thrill - you hadn’t been able to touch him in at least a fortnight - but the reaction that settled over you like a weighted blanket was pure distaste.

You’d actually chuckled at his question of “Are you mad at me?” _Yes,_ you were mad at him. Absolutely. How could you possibly be happy with him? He had abandoned you in Ohio with only a day or two of warning each time his move was prolonged. It was the same thing over and over again - _I’m sorry, baby, but I forgot that I promised this or that or the other thing_ \- and then you would have to recover from what felt like having the wind knocked out of you for a good day and a half.

The first night he visited was one of the worst you’d ever experienced as a couple. You had actually _screamed_ at him. You hurt so much, the only way you could reveal it was to yell and scream and cry. How could he have done this to you? You couldn’t understand. Why did he have to stay in Los Angeles while you were in Ohio, trying to make your house a home? Why couldn’t he permanently move here and fly out to California when necessary?

Your mind conjured up so many different levels of betrayal on his end - he’d gotten another girlfriend and loved her more than he loved you, so he shoved you to Ohio while he romped around with her; he’d gotten gravely ill and didn’t want you to see him go through treatment, so he convinced you to buy a house across the country while he tried to get better; he’d fallen out of love with you and the only way to make you see that was for him to abandon you in a place that ran off of white bread and chili dogs. The possibilities were endless, but none of them were the actual reason: he’d built most of his brand in California, and it was harder to break those ties than either one of you initially imagined.

A week after he’d flown out to see you, he drove across the country with Chica in his front seat and the early winter sun of Hollywood in his rearview.

It wasn’t easy, falling back into the routine of living together, especially after the previous months of actual fear his absence had brought along with it. You didn’t know how to talk to him anymore - you knew your relationship had shifted, and maybe it would never shift back. You blamed him for most of your unhappiness, which made it difficult for you to open up to him again, to truly laugh with him again, to really trust him with your heart again. Most nights, you chose to sleep in the guest room alone, rather than next to him in the master bedroom. Your rationale to yourself was that you’d have to get used to being alone if he were to leave you again, and that was something you were never actually able to wrap your head around the concept of - not even now, on the other side of things.

Slowly but surely, things started to turn around. Fans started asking about you, missing your interactions on social media and the occasional cameo in a video - it somehow made you feel as though you belonged, as though your presence had mattered. The holidays made things easier, surprisingly. Thanksgiving with your family all in one place renewed your bubbly spirit, and you even surprised yourself by answering “Are you liking Ohio?” with a genuine, “ _Yes.”_ The first Christmas in your new house was bittersweet - you missed your mom, but you were happy that you and Mark were close to where you started.

Christmastime had fully brought the two of you back together as you began new traditions together. You - being a true Californian - had never experienced more than a flurry of snow, so after the first big snowfall, Mark took you on a walk through the woods in your backyard, traipsing through the mounds of piled flakes, even tossing a handful down the back of your coat. He’d willingly gone shopping for decorations with you, picking out the beloved red sequined tree skirt and tossing it in the cart with delight after Mark agreed to it. Together, made four different kinds of cookies that year and the two of you took the time to carefully plate them and gift them to your neighbors.

The pieces were fitting back together into your new life in Ohio.

What scared you most, you knew now, was how painful it was to be without Mark. It was unimaginable, the pain those months had brought on. Every time you thought about driving home to work, only to find an empty house with still-packed boxes stacked in every room, your heart clenched and your lungs burned. Now that you had hindsight on your side, you knew that there was no place you’d rather be than Ohio, savoring the meal your boyfriend had made for you after a long day’s work on a cold December night.

“I love you,” you say in between bites. “Y’know that, right?”

“I do,” Mark nearly laughs, placing a warm hand on your knee. “D’y’know that _I_ also love _you_?”

You smile at his response, kissing him briefly on the lips before schooching your stool closer to his.  “Dunno if I really thanked you for being so great during the move,” he mutters as he plays with the broth in his bowl. “Life would be a lot different without you in it. Please don’t ever think that it was easy for me, having to leave you out here all those months. It killed me.”

You tear up, but choose to not let him see it. Four months was a long time, sure, but you felt now that nothing could come between the five years that you’d logged into your relationship with one another - four months was long, but it was a drop in the bucket compared to forever.

“I don’t think I want much of anything else for Christmas,” you ponder aloud, breaking the imagined tension. “Whatever I need, I’ve got right here.”

Mark looks at you with twinkling eyes, a grin playing at his lips. “You’re so full of shit!” he gapes, rolling his eyes.

You fall into a fit of laughter, knowing that cliches always disgusted the two of you, but you maintain the original sentiment. You were lucky to have him, this man who could pick up on your exhaustion and know exactly what you needed to cure the ache of a busy day, and you’d be damned if you didn’t try to show it at least once in awhile.

  
“Finish eating,” you scrunch your nose against his. “And I’ll _really_ show you how thankful I am.”


	4. Baby, It's Cold Outside*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❊ Your welcome has been / (How lucky you dropped in) / So nice and warm / (Look out the window at that snow) ❊

Mark’s not proud of how he catches himself swiping his fingertips across your ass as he walks by, how he takes a moment to smell the nape of your neck and press his lips against your warm skin, how he wonders whether or not you’re wearing undergarments beneath your fleece-lined leggings. But  _ goddamnit _ , he woke up this morning with a thirst for you in the back of his throat and he hasn’t been able to rid himself of it all day.

It started with your little squeaks of denial once your alarm went off, signaling that it was time to get to work. Although he had been in a state of half-sleep for the last half hour, he groaned as you stretched beside him, not quite ready to take on the day. Instead of allowing you to sit up in bed, he pulled you to him, the flesh of his chest bare and warm as your body melded into his side. You could feel his arousal against the swell of your ass when you rested against him, kissing his forearm wrapped across your collarbone. It wasn’t a rare occurrence for you to feel his excitement in the morning - he had warned you when you first started dating that he hadn’t left his tendency for morning wood in puberty, but it was never an issue for you, considering your affinity for morning sex. So, instead of rushing out of bed, you allowed your indentations to fit into his like puzzle pieces and laced your fingers with his own, your joined hands resting upon your clavicle as you kissed up his arm once more.

“Don’t get up yet,” Mark’s voice said, caked in sleep and a certain sweetness that makes you wiggle your toes. “Stay with me and we can fool around,” he whispered in the shell of your ear. 

“I have to go,” you smirked against his warm skin. “My class starts in a half hour.” And while you would have love to stay in bed with him - his messy hair and deep voice makes it hard for you to deny a lazy morning with him - you’d already paid for your early-morning hot yoga classes for the month of December. 

He let out a groan up to the ceiling, frustration-filled and scratchy with the thickness of the night. He unwillingly released you from his embrace, but not without pawing at your hips as you slowly inched out of bed. He mumbled something about showering with you when you return and you held onto that thought as your muscles stretched and relaxed during class. But by the time you’ve come back home, he’d already fallen back asleep, and who were you to wake a man who rarely allows himself the pleasure of staying in bed?

So, you’d showered, put on your sweatpants and an old t-shirt of Mark’s, made coffee, and had breakfast while he slept. Setting your work station up at the island in the kitchen, you set to work, knowing that your sleeping boyfriend upstairs would eventually awaken.

He knew he was being ridiculous. He was in a battle with himself the entire day, knowing that you took this day to at home in order to get ahead of your work - your company wanted everyone to enjoy the holiday season, just as long as their work was done - and to focus without the distraction of your assistant and other coworkers asking questions every two minutes. He knew this, and still, he couldn’t stop himself from beckoning you to the same room he was in so he could hold you, so he could get his five-minute fix of you that would hopefully hold him over for another hour. 

You didn’t put up a fight when he requested a kiss or two every time you crossed paths, nor did you pull away when he turned the quick pecks into something more. You laughed when he called you into his office just so he could pull you down on his lap and wrap his arms around you from behind for a few minutes in between recording videos, caressing his jawline as you rested your head against his shoulder. When he mumbled into your ear that all he could think about was how good you looked in bed this morning, you buried your face in his neck in embarrassment, rather than leaping up and telling him to get back to work. You encouraged him, ever-so-slightly, without egging him on throughout the day.

So, when you said you needed to go out and pick up a couple of Christmas presents for your coworkers, he was less than impressed with the way his mind wandered to your hands, picturing them wrapped around his permanent - or what he believed to be permanent, at this point - hard-on. While you thread your fingers into a pair of knit gloves, he can’t help but whine a little bit at your plan. Although you knew exactly what you wanted to buy the girls at your office, he knew how crazy the stores get around Christmas, and he figured you wouldn’t be back for another two hours, and by then, he might be dead.

“Don’t go,” he says, standing in the doorway to the garage to block your exit. “Stay in tonight. It’s really cold and it’ll take you forever to warm back up and the mall will be packed,” he grips the puffy shoulders of your winter coat, shaking you a little. “Please?” 

You frown slightly, wondering where this was all coming from. “I’ll be home soon,” you smirk, adjusting the strap of your handbag. “I’ll even stop and pick up some dessert for us on my way back,” you try to soften the deal, but the furrow in his brow tells you that this isn’t a negotiable request.

“Baby,” he nearly whimpers, squeezing your shoulders once more. “ _ Please _ .”

“What is this all about?” you ask, tilting your head. Mark was the most independent person you’d ever met - he rarely requested attention, so when he did, it was wise of you to listen. However, this was different. The look in his eyes and the gruffness of his voice and the way he was gripping your shoulders told you that it was more than wanting you. No, the desperation in your eyes and the worry in his voice was need.  _ Pure _ need.

“It’s just,” he frowns. “It’s so cold outside and I wouldn’t want you to get frostbite,” he upturns his frown into a smile, causing you to laugh a little.

“I have to go,” you try to move around his body, but he shifts so that no matter where you go, he’s right in front of you. You contemplate body-checking him, but you know you’re no match for his sturdy frame.

“Please don’t go,” he begs, “Please.”

You harumph, suddenly annoyed at his insistence. It’s not going to take you long to pick up the gifts and it would lift a weight off your shoulders to have that task ticked off of your to-do list. Mark’s need for attention could wait an hour.

“Mark,” you roll your eyes as you make one last attempt to skitter passed him.

He smashes his mouth onto yours before you realize what’s going on. The kiss is so searing, you feel it coax all of the air out of your lungs. He expertly maneuvers his tongue into your mouth, and before you know it, your bag drops to the floor in defeat. He’s got you - you’re not going anywhere. 

His lips don’t move from yours as he backs you into the wall, causing you to gasp slightly against his mouth, each kiss deeper than its predecessor. The pressure of his mouth on yours is varied as he leans into you, pressing up against your body to mark his territory. He’s growing hungrier with each kiss, and you’d be lying to yourself if you’d claimed them not to have the same impact on you. You feel your stomach flip when he moves to unzip your coat, and when he tells you to take off your gloves, you obey due to the look in his eyes alone. 

“Don’t go, baby,” the plea is softer this time, less desperate because he knows he’s got you right where he wants you. “Stay home with me tonight,” he murmurs against your jawline, his lips brushing up against the hitch just below your ear.

“Mhmm,” you sigh as he peppers kisses against your cheeks. “‘M not goin’ anywhere.”

He smiles then, jutting the tip of his tongue out to cross your full lower lip. You breathe unsteadily, your nerves shot after the aggressive nature of his need for you. You run your hands down the front of him - his tanned neck, where you feel his heartbeat pulsing across your fingertips, his faded t-shirt that clings to his muscular chest, down to the waistline of his sweatpants that have grown tighter with each moan you release.

He breaks away from you, his breath falling hot against your neckline. “Kitchen,” he whispers, kissing his way up your neck and back to your lips. It’s slow-going, as you can’t keep your hands off of one another during the ten-foot journey from the garage door to the island in your kitchen, but you don’t realize. You’re more focused on stripping yourself of the sweater you’ve layered, stripping him of the layers of clothing that kept your skin from his. All sense of time has left you, as it usually does when Mark kisses you with hunger beneath every swipe of his tongue against your own.

“Damn it,” he grunts when he gets you cornered against the countertop. “I’ve been thinking about doing this all day.” He kisses down your bare chest after ensuring that you were down to your bra and panties before pushing you into the corner, your hands on either side of you for balance. “You look so fucking good there.”

You feel as though you can melt into the hardwood floor after the way he looks at you, pure greed in his dark brown eyes. He cups the underside of your breasts as they rise and fall while you try to catch your breath. Groaning, he dips his head to kiss the top of them, sliding his tongue into the cup of your bra and moaning when you squeak after he finds your nipple. Your hands immediately go to his hair, grasping onto the strands that could use a trim. 

You moan impatiently when he doesn’t immediately move to unclasp your bra, tugging at his scalp as you do so. He snickers and moves his hand to expertly undo the restraining fabric that lies between your flesh and his mouth. Before dropping the barrier to the floor, he holds you against his bare chest while he kisses you square on the mouth once more. Again, you feel his arousal on your side, causing a warmth to spread through your core. “‘M gonna make you come so hard,” he promises in a growl lapping at the supple skin on your lips. “‘M gonna make you so wet for me.”

You whimper beneath him, closing your eyes tight as he trails kisses down your body and to the waist of your underwear - a cheeky pair with a traditional Christmas sweater pattern on it - and nips at the fabric that covers your mound. “ _ Baby _ ,” you whisper, one hand on the counter behind you to steady yourself, one hand still tangled in his hair.

“Smell so good,” he mumbles, nipping at the fabric. “Gotta get these off,” he yanks the last shred of your clothing down your thighs, around your ankles, and tossing them over his shoulder, sighing when you’re fully revealed to him. “Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn,” he chuckles, bravely swiping his middle finger swiftly up your folds. “My girl is always ready for me, isn’t she?”

When he looks up at you, you nod with hooded eyes, sucking in air through your gritted teeth when he nuzzles at the top of your folds, hitting your clit slightly in the process. He’s already got you in a fit of whimpers and sighs as he helps you swing one of your thighs to rest atop of his freckled shoulder so that you open up for him, warranting a groan in the back of his throat as he crouches on the floor in front of you. 

“Would you just look at that?” he muses, licking his lips. “Gonna lick you clean,” he smirks, jutting his tongue out to taste you for the first time tonight.

“Mark!” you nearly scream, yanking his hair involuntarily, not caring if it brings him pain. You feel him smile against your center at your response, tingles shooting up your spine from the breath that he lets out against you.

You bite your lower lip when his strong tongue swipes over your clit, applying pressure to the bud while he repeatedly licks at you. Right on the nerves, he sucks and swirls until you’re inhaling so sharply, you can’t help but moan to take some of the edge off. Mark moans against you, the vibrations causing you even more pleasure as you squirm beneath him. He moves to steady you with his hand on your stomach, warm and heavy as you writhe against his tongue.

“Oh God,” you whisper. “Fuck  _ me _ .”

He doesn’t seem to mind how loud you’re getting - you think he rather enjoys it, really - especially when he slides his middle finger into you, inciting a deep groan and a slap on the countertop from you. He pulls back, watching his digit move in and out of you while swiping his thumb over you clit, still maintaining the pressure necessary to keep you from squirming about. He’s being slow, taking his time stroking you with his fingers, kissing your clit with swollen lips and a sharp tongue, smiling up at you while he tortures you, but there’s a method to his madness, and you know it.

Suddenly, he’s completely devouring you. The smacking sounds of his lips and tongue spur the rolling of your lips against his mouth, moans bubbling up through your through and across your lips, out into the air of your kitchen, echoing against the cabinets and marble countertops. You grasp the ledge he’s cornered you into as he enjoys how slick you’ve become for him, lapping up as if he can’t get enough of you.

“That’s my girl,” he takes a breath. “That’s my pretty girl.”

“Baby,” you mutter, your eyes closed and head swung back. “Baby, baby, baby.”

He loses himself in you, you think. It’s more primal than he’s ever been. For a moment, you believe that he’s  _ actually _ trying to eat you, It’s nearly devastating, how good it all feels. You’re barely able to catch your breath before a new wave of sensation rolls over you, taking all of the sight out of your eyes and filling your ears with white noise. 

You feel yourself nearing your climax, moaning, “Needta come. N-nee-need it. Baby,  _ baby _ \-- oh god,” as a warning before you shudder around his fingers, his lips, his mouth. You clutch his hair as you shake, wordlessly riding out the high he’s provided for you. Maybe, you think, you just might keep coming and coming and coming against his mouth until you’re dead.

It wouldn’t be the worst fate, you imagine.

He’s up on his feet with his boxer briefs around his ankles before you get the chance to recover or even open your eyes. “‘M gonna fuck you,” he growls into your ear, roughly turning you over so that your back is to him. “Want me to fuck you? Want me to make you come around my cock?”

You gasp, your hand reaching for the cabinet above your head to steady you. 

“Been such a good girl today, doing all your work,” you feel him slide the tip of his member against your slick folds as he whispers in your ear from behind you. “Then coming so well for me. Gonna show you how proud I am of you.”

You close your eyes tightly and nearly mewl at his words. He enters you in one expert thrust, causing you to scream out and grip the edge of the counter beneath your free hand. You suck in a breath at how he continues to stretch you every time, that familiar and delicious burn never something you’d want to get used to, never something you’d want to take for granted.

Scraping his teeth against your shoulder, he whispers words of encouragement into the shell of your ear while he bucks into you time and time again, his skin slapping against yours in what could be the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. You could cry, he feels so good inside of you, but instead you mumble streams of curse words as he continues his assault on your senses from behind.

“Fuck me,” he audibly gasps as you arch back into him, pushing up against his groin. “Such a tight pussy - all for me - all for my cock,” he murmurs so quietly you can barely hear him, and when he lays an open hand against your ass, you scream out in the way that always makes him smile. “Mmm, yes baby -  _ yes _ .”

He grabs onto both of your hips tightly as you shudder beneath him, pumping into you over and over and over again so that you’re moaning his name so loudly, you can’t hear anything else. With each glide back and forth, he moves you closer to the end once more, and for a split second, you’re unsure if you can handle any more sensitivity added to your tingling slit. You cry out as he pulls all the way back and slams into you once more, and after that, no sound escapes until he’s made you wordlessly come around him, you walls tightly pulsing around him as you ride out your second wave of pleasure.

“That’s it,” Mark grunts through tight lips. “There we go.”

“Baby,” you cry, turning your face so you can see him over your shoulder. It’s the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen - you’re sure of it. Every inch of him is glistening, every muscle taut as he tries to hold it together. He bites his lower lip as you squeeze around him again, willing him to let go. “Come for me.”

“N-no,” he shakes his head, closing his eyes. “N-not yet. Too soon. Wanna feel you.”

You clench around him, pushing back up against him as his hands tighten on your hips. “Come for me,” you whimper, your brows furrowed, knowing he loves how you look when he’s fucking you. “Show me how good of a girl I am and come on my ass, baby.”

He whines, helplessly lost in words that endlessly turn him on. He cries out, stepping back from you and letting his load catch on your ass that has a distinct handprint plastered across it, streaming together “ _ Fuck, shit, goddamn _ ” in a beautiful symphony of moans and groans. You watch him as he comes for you, pleasure overriding his features while his body tenses and convulses.

“What the  _ fuck _ was that?!” you stand straight on wobbly legs, turning around. The goofy smile on Mark’s face paired with his sex hair is enough to lead you into fits of giggles for days to come.

“Stores’re still open,” he says in between shallow breaths and giggles, “if you still wanna go out.”


	5. It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❊ It’s the most wonderful time of the year / there’ll be much mistletoeing / and hearts will be glowing / when loved ones are near / it’s the most wonderful time of the year ❊

His requests grew each year. You tried to make at least one new cookie recipe every holiday season, and those cookies were usually a success. Mark would then fall in love with the new cookie and demand that you make it again the next year, which meant that you had about eight cookie recipes on your list to make this year. You never bothered to talk your way out of baking so much, as you knew you would lose the battle, but you quite enjoyed baking, especially on the weekends. This year, you recruited his presence in the kitchen, as you would need more than just your pair of hands to get through the list.

“If you start on the sugar cookie dough, I can get the Oreo truffles done so they’re ready to freeze,” you point towards the counter where you had lined up every ingredient needed for your marathon of baking. “Remember to use cold butter, not room-temperature.”

“Ain’t my first rodeo, lil lady,” Mark saunters over to the counter, his head cocked back and a smug look on his face. “I know what I’m doing here.”

You roll your eyes and get to work piling stacks of Oreos into the food processor. Being a homeowner scared you at first - especially when you had to go it alone for the first few months - but it did come with the benefits of housewarming gifts. Gone were the days you had to smash cookies with a rolling pin to achieve maximum crumbles now that you had a food processor to do all of the grunt work for you.

As always, you’ve got Christmas music playing over the stereo system, and you find yourself singing along with Andy Williams as he sings about the most wonderful time of the year as you assemble Mark’s (and yours, admittedly) favorite cookie truffles. Glancing over your shoulder, you watch as your boyfriend sings the song as well, leveling out flour into the Kitchen Aid mixer. He bobs his head as he cracks eggs, carefully following the recipe with a slight kink in his brow.

“Is this right?” he bellows over the music. “It feels like there’s way too much vanilla extract in this recipe.”

“‘M sure it’s right,” you nod, hair falling in your eyes as you knead the truffle base together. “That’s the one I always use.” To no avail, you attempt to flick the hair out of your eyes. You choose to ignore it, but soon it starts to tickle your nose. Before you can smear the wet ingredients all over your face, you remember that you’re wrist-deep in gooey cream cheese and chocolate. Huffing, you blow strands out of your way and try to press on.

“D’ya need help, sweets?” Mark chuckles at your struggle, walking over to you.

“Maybe,” you pout as your hair continues to fall in your face. 

“You never remember to but your hair back before you start,” Mark smiles and tucks the strands behind your ears, kissing your forehead once you’re all straightened out. You smile and pucker at him for a kiss on the lips and he happily obliges.

“Thanks,” you kiss him once more before getting back to work, knowing that the mixture will begin to melt from the heat of your hands if you don’t hurry.

Once again, the two of you find yourself working in tandem with a comfortable silence around you, save for the music playing. Chica sits patiently at your feet while you work, giving up on you after five minutes and moving on to Mark. When she finds no success with him, she moves back to you, the pattern continuing all afternoon.

“Peanut butter thumbprints next?” you ask, grabbing an unopened jar of peanut butter off of the counter.

“Fuck yeah,” Mark nods, his eyes lighting up. “Pupper can finally have a treat,” he looks down at the golden retriever in between the two of you. As her tail starts wagging and thumping against the floor, Mark pats the top of her head. “Chica wants some peanut butter, don’t you, baby?” he coos, leaning down to scratch behind her ears.

“As always,” you start as you toss a bag of Hershey kisses on the counter, plopping it down in front of Mark, “you get to unwrap all of the kisses while I make the dough,” you grin and stick out your tongue, patting his shoulder. Your least favorite part about baking Mark’s all-time favorite cookies was unwrapping all of the cursed Hershey’s kisses, so you were happy you could always coerce him into the dirty work with little to no complaint on his side.

“Gladly,” he grabs you and pulls you to him by your shoulders, blowing a raspberry onto your exposed neck. 

“Mark!” You squawk in response, slapping a firm hand to his bicep while you try to remove yourself from his grasp. Chica jumps up and rests her paws on your torso in confusion, nuzzling her snout into the crook of your arm. “You scared the baby!” you scold, poking Mark in the chest with your index finger.

You crouch down to your knees so you’re face-to-face with Chica, whispering calming words as you massage her ears and she sniffs your face, her tail once again thumping against the hardwood floors of your kitchen. “It’s okay, girl,” you sneer up at Mark as you comfort your dog. “Daddy was just being a goof. He didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Mark opens his hands in disgust. “You were  _ my dog  _ first,” he complains, pointing at Chica. The dog swipes a long lick up your cheek in response. “What is this?! What is this betrayal?!” he cries out, his words echoing against the spaciousness of the kitchen. “I am appalled and offended! My own kin turning against me for some floozy tart,” he throws his hands in the air and shakes his head dramatically as pseudo-tears coat his speech.

“Oh,  _ please _ !” you screech, standing up. Chica steps behind you, her head just at your thigh as she watches her humans have it out. “This floozy tart is making you  _ eight _ different kinds of cookies,” you huff. “And you certainly weren’t calling me a floozy tart last night,” you raise your eyebrows at him, cocking your head to the corner he had you draped over the previous evening. “How quickly they forget,” you shake your head at Chica, who merely wags her tail in response.

Mark gapes at you, pointing between you and the dog. “But,” he stutters. “She! With the! And the - when - you! But - there was - with the! She -  _ you _ !” he growls, stomping towards you with a devilish smile on his face and a hitch in his jaw.

You yelp, backing up quickly until you realize that you can go no further. He’s got you trapped again, and you shriek wildly as he bites at your neck with deep grunts and sloppy licks to your skin. You dissolve into giggles that bring to mind champagne and Pop Rocks for the man who enticed such a noise from you in the first place. Chica barks behind him, out of the loop and feeling quite left out.

“Don’t you be tellin’ my pup bad things about me!” Mark snorts against you, lifting up his head so you can giggle once more at his wayward hair flopping up and down on his head. “I love you, but I don’t have to like you right now,” he pouts, poking at your ribs.

“Okay, well,” you try and catch your breath as you shove strands of your hair out of your face. “I guess I won’t be making peanut butter thumbprints this year,” you shrug, turning your back so you can gather the ingredients anyway.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mark sidles up beside you, leaning against the counter and craning his neck so it would be impossible for you not to look at him. “Whoa now! I didn’t say anything about that.” 

You shrug once more, turning away so he can’t see the smile playing at your lips.

  
“CHICA!” he screams, causing you to jump and place a frightened hand over your heart. “Get some opposable thumbs, because we’re unwrapping kisses!”


	6. Jingle Bell Rock*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❊ Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock / Jingle bells swing and jingle bells ring / snowing and blowing up bushels of fun / now the jingle-hop has begun ❊

“I’m  _ serious _ ,” you warn. “If you eat any more before the party, I’m going to ban you from the kitchen for the rest of the day,” you slap Mark’s hands away from the large crockpot full of homemade chili.

“But-” he begins, and you cut him off with an icy stare before he can continue. Bowing his head, he shuffles over to the fridge, sighing dramatically while he peruses its contents.

“The chili is for our  _ guests _ ,” you remind him, placing the lid back onto the pot. “You can have as much as you want when the party starts. It’ll taste even better tonight after it’s been simmering all day,” you say in a reassuring tone as you walk behind him and rub his back. You kiss his cheek, hoping to remove the pout he’s sporting.

“‘Kay,” he mumbles, shutting the fridge without acquiring any of its contents. “Just smells really good, is all,” he shrugs.

You tut and giggle, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him in for a hug. He groans and nuzzles into the space where your shoulder meets your neck, boo-hooing over not getting his way. You pet his hair down, promising him that he’ll be able to get his chili soon enough.

While neither of you would say that you’re the best party planners in the world, you did enjoy throwing a nice get-together for your close friends. In the summer, you’d throw afternoon barbeques, with Mark on the grill and you mixing up refreshing cocktails. In the autumn, bonfires with s’mores and cider were part of nearly every weekend. And, of course, the holidays brought more opportunity for you to invite friends over for an evening of good food, good drinks, and laughter.

This year, you made it easy on yourself. Mark had loved your chili recipe from the beginning of your relationship, so you decided to throw together a large quantity of it for your guests, allowing them to fix up their bowls of chili with whatever they like from your little station of toppings - sour cream, cheese, jalapenos, bacon bits. You’d have a small crockpot filled with hot toddies and another with hot chocolate, along with snacks and hors d’oeuvres for your friends to munch on before the chili station was opened up. 

It made you feel at home, preparing food for others. You were quite proud of yourself, really, and you wanted to make sure Mark didn’t ruin his dinner by taking spoonfuls from the chili throughout the day. You’d kept a watchful eye on him as you made your way through the house, picking up odds and ends that didn’t belong before you got ready for the party. The second you turned your back or walked into a different room, he had snuck as many bites as he could before getting caught.

“Wanna help me get the platters ready?” you offered as he rested the weight of his head onto your shoulder. “Might take your mind off the chili,” you suggest, rubbing his back in calming circles. 

“Mmmyeah,” he grumbles, still hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “Sounds all right.”

You smile and push his hair out of his eyes when he lifts his head, kissing the tip of his nose and across his cheeks. You hate to admit it, but you loved when he acted like a child after being scolded by you - it wasn’t often, but that boy-like pout that splayed across his mouth always made you want to kiss it away. 

“You’ll be okay,” you promise, kissing him square on the lips. His are soft and warm against yours, slick as he opens his mouth slightly to accommodate your pucker. His kisses to you had been longer lately, lingering while they verge on the side of something more, something deeper than a chaste peck against the lips. If you weren’t careful, those kisses could turn into more than what was intended to be a quick display of affection.

“Can’t you just love on me instead?” he whines at how you pull away, holding onto your hips so you don’t move too far.

“Gotta get the stuff ready for tonight,” you shake your head, agreeing to one more kiss before opening the fridge. “Although the offer is tempting…: you glance over your shoulder, smiling. Once we put these together, all there’s left to do are the drinks,” you say. “Could you get the two ceramic platters in the drawer with the pans?” When he slightly stops his feet, you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “... _ go faster if you didn’t complain _ ,” you mumble under your breath, grabbing a jar of pickles and another of olives.

You don’t swat at Mark’s fingers when he takes a couple of olives and a few slices of cheese off of the serving dishes, knowing that it’ll make him whinier and more difficult to deal with throughout the day if you push much more. When he grumbles at how the cling wrap sticks to itself instead of the plate, you shoo him away to take a nap, hoping that a rest will take away his grumpiness.

“M not tired,” he insists, leaning a palm onto the counter. “Just don’t wanna do this right now,” he lets out a long, wistful sigh as he watches you carefully set the finished hor d’oeuvres onto the cleared shelves in the fridge.

“Well, we’re done,” you muster as cheerfully as you can, shutting the fridge with your hip. “So how’s about you go and lie down for a bit while I finish setting up?” You step over to him, swiping the hair out of his eyes once more. “Might make you feel a bit less grumpy.”

“Hmm,” Mark ponders, closing his eyes as you begin to scratch his back. Through his white v-neck t-shirt, you can see the muscles of his back reacting to your touch, and it makes your stomach flip a bit before you move your focus back to his face. “Maybe I will.”

“You should,” you nod, kissing his cheek. There’s something so sweet about the gesture, it makes him open his eyes and smirk at you. He moves to connect his lips to yours, and the two of you get lost in one another for the second time that day, and when he slides his smooth tongue over your bottom lip, you can’t help but let out a tiny whimper in response.

“Should come up with me,” Mark says against your lips. “‘d be fun.”

“Mmm,” you smile, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear. “Wish I could, but there’s much to do,” you whine slightly, kissing him once more before you pull away for the time being. “But you should go - naps are good.”

“Better with you,” he makes a move to pull you back to him, but you step back before his hands can reach your waist, shaking your head with a smile on your face. With a frown and a  _ hmph _ , Mark shuffles out of the kitchen like a dog with its tail between its legs, grumbling about how unfair you were being.

You chuckle to yourself and begin wiping down the counters, knowing that if you had time before the party started, you would give Mark the exact thing that would put him in a better mood before guests arrived. 

For the next hour, you stay busy with fluffing throw pillows, straightening Christmas decorations, and lighting candles around your house. There’s always a friend or two who demand a tour of your house, no matter how many times they’ve seen it, so you’re sure to tidy the upstairs as quietly as possible while Mark -  _ hopefully _ \- sleeps away his disagreeable mood. You think to yourself that it might be ridiculous of you to decorate for Christmas in the rooms you’re rarely ever in, but it always makes you happy to see the decorative cushions and plaid blankets in your guest rooms. You check the time on your phone before opening the curtains to let the room breathe, noting that you should probably start on the drinks if you planned to join your boyfriend before the party began.

You find Chica laying at your bedroom door and stifle a giggle. She must’ve been absent when Mark came upstairs to sleep, otherwise she would’ve been invited into the bedroom to snooze with him. “C’mere, babe,” you hit your thigh when you reach the stairs, signaling her to follow you. “Let’s go downstairs and see what kind of treats we can find for you.”

The blonde dog happily trails behind you down the stairs and to the kitchen, stopping to sniff her feline companion who has currently occupied the back of the couch in the living room. “Leave Linus alone,” you warn over your shoulder, but Chica brushes her nose against the orange cat one more time before joining you in the kitchen.

“Gonna help me with the drinks, girl?” you ask her while she wags her tail at your feet. She looks at you expectantly, her ears perked and what seems to be a smile on her face. “Oh! Right. Promised you a treat,” you nod your head succinctly and grab a bone from the treat jar you house by the coffee maker. “You’re only getting this because you’re so dang cute,” you hold it out for her. “Don’t tell Dad. He might get jealous again,” you rub her ears as she happily holds the bone in her mouth. Once she’s gotten what she wants from you, she prances out of the kitchen and back into the living room, likely showing off her treat to her companion.

You set to work on creating the hot toddies and hot cocoa, quietly humming the ever-present Christmas carols in your head as you assemble the ingredients. Your excitement rises as time ticks on, vanilla and cranberry-scented candles filling your home with a sweet aroma, the chocolate shavings melting into the milk to create a delectable drink for your friends to enjoy that evening. This, you felt, was what Christmas was all about. The joy of being reunited with friends, being able to celebrate the holidays with them while you caught up on one another’s lives and laughed at memories you had already created.

By the time you were finished with the drinks, guests were to arrive within an hour and a half. You check and double-check to ensure that you’re ready for the party to begin before you climb the stairs, ready to see if Mark’s midday slumber had wiped him clear of any begrudging attitude he’d held before. 

You open the door as quietly as possible, the only light seeping in through the draperies being that of the gray winter sky as the sun sets, casting a dull glow over the restful man sleeping in the same spot he does every night. You walk carefully over towards the bed, feeling as though you’re on a covert mission. Skillfully tossing a leg over the right side of your boyfriend, you slide onto the bed and straddle the back of his thighs before settling your weight on him.

He moves a little, slight mumbles falling across his lips. You smirk, running your warm hands up and down the spans of his even-warmer back, loving that no matter the weather outside, you could always find him shirtless as he slept. He stirred more at the contact, groaning himself awake as he stretched his arms above his head.

“Hey,” you whisper, kneading the heel of your hands into his shoulder blades. “Have a good nap?”

“Mmm,” he growls through his lips while you work on a particularly knotted area just below his neck. “Was good,” he sighs, burying his head back into his pillow. “Better now, though,” he moans slightly as you your fingertips down into him, his muscles still relaxed from his slumber.

You lower your head and kiss a trail across the broadness of his shoulders, freckles peppering his tan skin like snowflakes on an empty street. He sighs as your mouth makes its way across the span of his back, nuzzling his head deeper into the pillow.

“What’re you doin’?” he inquires, his voice muffled somewhat by the pillow.

“Lovin’ on ya,” you say against his skin.

You continue to massage his back, leaning your weight into the spots that are tightest, hoping to relieve some of the residual grumpiness that lies in his voice. He sighs happily against his pillow, telling you how good it feels, asking you why you stopped when your hands paused for only a couple of seconds. To give yourself a break, you move to scratching his back up and down, around in circles, from side to side. He sighs again, this time a little shakier, after you kiss his shoulders once more.

“Roll over,” you whisper against the shell of his ear. He hums in a gruff voice as you lift up above him, giving him enough room to readjust and flip over so he’s facing you. Sleep still overtakes his features, his dark hair splayed back against the pillow, and you smile at his hazy eyes.

“What’re you doin’  _ now _ ?” he smirks, his voice rough and deep.

“Still lovin’ on ya,” you assure, setting your bum so that it aligns neatly with his arousal. 

Moving to kiss his jaw, your fingertips dance on the skin that isn’t occupied by your mouth. Mark moves to run his hands up and down the spanse of your torso, stopping at your ass and taking a moment to squeeze the fleshy area beneath your sweatpants. You slightly grind down and back into his palms, the friction feeling good against your core while you focus your lips on his neck. He shivers, taking in an uneven breath, while you make a home over his collarbone and against his Adam’s apple.

“Feels good,” he whispers, and now it’s his time to knead, moving his hands against the small of your back and down to your butt again. 

“Mm-hmm,” you agree, your lips still attached to his neck. You wish you could take all the time in the world to taste his skin - his warm, sleepy skin - noticing how he swallows somewhat nervously beneath you as you lick and suck and sample the area that drives him craziest. You nudge and nuzzle, whispering about how good he feels beneath you, sprinkling his neck, his jaw, his chin, and his cheeks with light kisses while your fingertips find a safe spot in his hair.

You rise up slightly, making eye contact with him. He smiles, his warm hands tucking beneath the t-shirt of his that you’re sporting, the fabric loose and soft against your skin. He runs his fingers up and down your back as you rest your palms on his chest.

“So beautiful,” he mutters, moving one hand from your back to the side of your face. “So,  _ so _ beautiful.”

He guides your lips to his, and the connection nearly brings tears to your eyes. He’s always so gentle with you, almost worried that he’d break you, save the times he really lets you have it. But, this time, it’s slower, as he’s sleepy and you’re more than happy to wake him up, so you’re careful with your kisses. You hold onto his lips longer than usual, gliding your tongue against his in an undeniably lazy way that makes his stomach flip and his heart pound. You knew you’d never become sick of kissing this man - this gorgeous, gorgeous man - and that you could spend all day stealing swipes against his lips if he’d allow you.

Mark takes his teeth and nibbles at your lower lip, one hand at the nape of your neck and another against your back, underneath his t-shirt. You wonder if he can feel you shiver slightly beneath his touch as you place a light hand against his neck, feeling his pulse beneath your fingers. He increases the pressure of his lips against yours, pulling your head closer to his, while you start to roll your hips against his in slow, torturous circles.

You can feel the warmth spreading through your body, beginning at your core. Mark lets out a soft moan once you grind down against him, your chest flush against his. You battle for dominance in the kiss, trying to gain control, but the second he swipes his tongue over your bottom lip and across your own tongue, you know he’s won. You allow him to have this, as you’ve managed to entice a few moans from him as your hips move atop his. You know you’re aroused - you can feel the heat in your pelvis, and if the tingling in your abdomen is any indication of how wet you’ll be, you can only guess that you’ve already soaked through to your sweatpants.

While Mark moves his mouth down to your neck and collarbone, you sneakily move your hand down his chest, feeling the hardness of his dick with your fingertips, smiling at the involuntary way his hips buck into your hand. Pawing at his package, you can’t help but sliding across your own hand, the friction your bodies cause turning you on all the more. You pull down his boxer briefs for easier access, he grabs onto the nape of your neck, sucking and licking against your skin, and it’s a battle to see who can turn on the other more - while you’d like to say you’re winning, the way he whispers “ _ baby girl _ ” in your ear makes you tense with pleasure.

“Too fuckin’ many,” he grumbles against your neck as he shifts in your hand.

“Wha?” you ask, pausing your movements.

“Too many clothes,” he explains. “Why are you wearing clothes?”

Frustrated, he moves beneath you so that he’s sitting up slightly, his hands free to strip you of the baggy t-shirt. He throws it to the floor and begins working on your sweatpants, pleasantly surprised when he sees that you’ve skipped undergarments today. 

“There’s no point,” you shrug, lifting one leg after the other so you can kick the joggers off to the side. “Makes this easier, hmm?”

“Absolutely,” he bites his lip as you glide your slick folds over the underside of his  _ very _ hard cock.

“Mmmyeah,” you nod, biting your lip in succession with his. “There it is.”

Mark gasps slightly while you tease the tip of him with your opening, your body moving atop of him like some perfect specimen of celestial beauty, he’s sure of it. You’re moving so slow, he clenches his eyes shut, not wanting to rush you, yet wanting to be inside of you so badly, he could positively erupt.

“Don’t do this to me,” he grunts, holding your hips down so tightly, you’re sure the tender skin will bruise by morning. “So mean.  _ So good _ ,” he nearly cries out, his eyes saying everything he can’t put into words.

“Don’t like it when I tease you?” you ask, hearing the smile through your voice. “Don’t like it when I’m so wet and you can’t feel me?”

“God _ damn _ ,” he shudders, moving his hips to align with your movements, begging for any sort of salvation he can get. “Sound so fuckin’ good. Those moans for me? So perfect. Need you to fuck me, baby. Need you to take me. ”

You, yourself, aren’t sure you can take any more of this.

“Yeah?” you nod, hitching your leg a little higher so you can line him up with your entrance. You slowly sink down onto him, wanting to feel every inch of him as you lower down, listening to Mark growl underneath you at the torturous pace. 

Once you’ve accommodated his size, he pushes up into you, going even deeper than you thought possible. You shriek, gripping at his biceps as you anchor yourself onto him, moving back in forth in a pace that delivers the exact response you wanted from him - complete silence.

It’s all you can do not to scream as you shift up and down on his cock, quickly and with short, wet movements, needing as much friction as possible to keep you satisfied. When he begins to mirror your movements, your breathing becomes erratic - nearly panicked - as your brain tries to compute all of your nerve endings firing away.  You move up and down, side to side, barely able to find release as your sense are so overwhelmed with what  _ his _ body is doing to  _ your _ body. You swear you could cry, but you fear you’d never be able to stop.

“Oh,  _ God _ ,” you call out, slamming back down onto him and riding out a wave of pleasure as your hair curtains around the two of you, your noses touching as you move up and down on top of him. Sliding a hand in between the two of you, Mark rubs his thumb over your clit, causing your eyes to roll to the back of your head in what could only be described as an assault to your pleasure sensors.“Oh God, oh God, oh  _ God _ .”

When you come, you’re silent, save for the mewls you give up once you’re finished. It’s nearly indescribable, the white noise you see beneath your lids. A bomb had gone off nearby - that was the only explanation you could give for the ringing in your ears, the stars in your eyes, the birds flying around your head.

Although you can’t get any closer to him, you try with every fiber of your being to meld into him, to become the same being he is, because it’s getting to be too much. You want to rip at clothes that aren’t there, you want to crawl through skin you can’t see past. Your need has turned primal - you don’t know if you’ll ever get enough of Mark - you don’t know if you’ll ever get your fill. You cry out as he holds the underside of your ass so he can pummel into you from below, your knees and thighs giving out under the quaking pleasure of him being so deep inside of you.

“Hoah -  _ fuck _ !” you whimper, hiding your face in Mark’s neck. “ _ Goddamn _ , baby.”

“So fuckin’ good,” he growls, his short nails leaving half-moon impressions in your ass. “ _ Fuckin’ good _ .”

“Yes, love.  _ Yes _ ,” you sob into his neck, nearing closer to insanity with each passing thrust up and into you.

“Gonna come soon,” he warns, gripping your forearms to his sides so you can’t move - not that you wanted to - not that you  _ could _ .  “Can’t,” he mumbles, his eyes searching for yours in the near-darkness. “Gonna come.”

“Come for me, baby,” you encourage him, placing a finger on his jawline. “Show me what you’ve got.”

As he clenches up into you, you whisper against his skin, kissing everywhere you can find. You wait until his breathing has evened out to break the news that guests would start arriving within an hour and that the two of you should work on getting ready.

You knew, with uncertainty, that a nap and a roll in the hay would do wonders for your boyfriend. Predictable as he may be, you were more than pleased to see the smile back on his face while the two of you showered together. He was playful as he soaped up your back, washed your hair, and saved you from sliding down the tile as you changed positions underneath the water. He even maintained his smile while watching you get ready, chatting with you as you applied your makeup, asking you what you planned to wear, even though he had helped you decide the outfit last week. This is your favorite version of Mark - the bubbly conversationalist who could put anyone in a good mood.

And, if it meant that you had to have an orgasm to witness your Favorite Mark, then so be it. You never claimed to be a martyr, but if the shoe fits...

The two of you keep your afternoon activity under wraps as you mingle with your friends during the party. Sly smiles and winks from him indicate that he’s still thinking about his lovely wakeup call, which causes you to blush and place a hand over your mouth to hide a smile more than once. Mark finally gets his chili, winking at you over his dish as he stands in the corner of the kitchen, catching up with a childhood friend, laughing over memories that were long-forgotten until that very moment. You swipe your hand across his back when you walk by him, never looking back to gauge his reaction. When you sit to play a few rounds of Cards Against Humanity, he helps you choose the best card to play, shushing your friends who insist it constitutes as cheating.

And although you barely got to speak during the festivities, you’re pleased to say the gathering went off without a hitch. Once the kitchen is cleaned and all of the candles have been blown out, you plop down on the couch, your boyfriend’s hand in yours.

“We did good, kid,” he smiles before kissing the crown of your head. 

“We did,” you agree, squeezing his hand. “Except now I’m exhausted and can’t even think about moving off of this couch for at least another two hours.”

“Well, maybe you can take a nap,” he suggests in an unassuming tone. “I’ll wake you up in a bit. I’m sure you’ll feel  _ much _ better.”

You roll your eyes and scoff, playfully hitting him on the chest when he winks at you. Snuggling down into the crook of his arm, you choose to ignore his suggestion and force him to wrap his arms around you instead.

“Love you,” he mutters, sinking into the cushions.

  
“Love you too, Moo.”


	7. White Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❊ I’m dreaming of a white Christmas / Just like the ones I used to know / Where the treetops glisten and children listen / To hear sleigh bells in the snow ❊

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I do sincerely apologize for this going up so late. I've been having a lot of issues with my WiFi. I will be posting three total imagines today (Days 6-8) and two tomorrow (Day 9 & 10). I don't want to bombard you with all four imagines today, so I'll spread them out across two days. Thank you for your understanding - this imagine, along with the next one, is shorter because Jingle Bell Rock was longer and the imagine that will be posted for Day 8 will be long as well. Is this making any sense?!

You weren’t completely disappointed that it hadn’t snowed yet - it wasn’t the worst to have clear roads and to not have to shovel the walk. The time you had lived in Ohio was enough to get you used to the ins and outs of snowfall, and although snow wasn’t a big deal to natives of your new home, it was still a big deal to you. But, it was mid-December, and it saddened you to think that you may not have a white Christmas.

Every day, you would drive into work, the heat blasting in your car while you sang along to Christmas songs on the radio. It had been literally freezing for the past couple of weeks, but your town had nothing to show for it. You didn’t  _ mind _ the cold, necessarily, but you would like for some snow to go along with it. What’s the point in having freezing temperatures if there was no snow? 

Mark texted you that evening as you were packing up to go home, asking if, on your way home, you would pick up the pizza order he placed for the two of you.  _ Gladly :) _ , you had responded, happy to have dinner sorted, especially happy because it was from your favorite local Italian restaurant. He then responded with a screenshot of the weather report - according to meteorologists, a massive snowstorm was going to be sweeping over the Midwest that evening - and suggested that you bring everything you needed from work, just in case the weather was too bad to go in tomorrow.

Giddy, you picked up the pizza and hurried home, a smile plastered on your face from the minute you walked into the door. You hopped a little as you made your way into the kitchen, a large pizza box balancing on your palms while your work satchel and purse hung from the crooks of your elbows.

“Someone’s happy,” Mark’s deep voice greeted you as he sauntered into the kitchen. 

“It’s gonna  _ snow _ !” you clap once you’ve set the pizza on the counter. “It’s gonna  _ really snow _ !”

“Can I take your bag for you?” he chuckles, ridding you of the overstuffed work bag that was winning a battle against you as you danced with glee. “Also, you’re scaring the dog.”

“Am not!” you unzip your coat after tossing your purse on the countertop. “She’s excited too, aren’t you, girl?!” you bounce over to Chica, who has worked herself into such a tizzy, she can barely stand on straight legs. “Snow, snow, snow!” you cheer in a sing-song voice, wiggling with Chica close to the floor.

“Go change out of your work clothes,” Mark laughs and rolls his eyes. “I’ll meet you in the living room when you’re done.”

“Wanna eat in there? Watch a movie? Watch  _ Elf _ ?” you paw your hair out of your face, stripping your coat and gloves off while you skip over to your boyfriend. “Want me to wear my plaid pajama pants too so we can match?” 

“You’ve actually gone insane,” his eyes widen, taking your coat from you. “Wear whatever you want.” With your heels on from work, you’re taller than normal, making you the perfect height for him to kiss your forehead without much effort. When he places his lips onto your cold skin, he smoothes down the static in your hair, laughing softly at the franticness of your return home.

“Oh, c’mon,” you huff, throwing your forearms atop his shoulders. “Say you wanna match jammies with me while we watch  _ Elf _ and eat pizza,” you smile, wiggling your eyebrows. “Say it.  _ Say it _ ,” you sing, shaking your hair out. 

“Why can’t you come home and change out of your work clothes like a normal girlfriend?” he grumbles, hugging you back as you pull him into your embrace, your coat in his arms offering some protection against your celebration.

“Because,” you grin, placing the tip of your cold nose in the sensitive area beneath his earlobe. “It’s gonna  _ snow _ ,” you whisper, kissing his jaw before pushing back to look at him again. “So say it! Say that you want us to match while we eat pizza and watch a movie.” 

“ _ Fine _ ,” he huffs. “Wear your plaid pajama pants so we can match while we eat pizza and watch  _ Elf _ .”

“If you say so!” you giggle, skipping out of the kitchen with Chica on your heels. Mark swears he can hear you asking the dog if she wants to wear  _ her _ plaid “jammies” as well, but he chooses to ignore you and put your coat on the hook by the garage door instead.

You hum happily as you pick out a red and blue plaid pajama pant and an old Harvard crewneck, talking to Chica about how fun it’ll be to play in the snow tomorrow. She sits patiently at the door to the master bathroom while you take your makeup off and throw your hair into a messy ponytail, listening intently to every word you speak. Once you’ve turned out the light, she bounds out the room and down the stairs with you behind her.

You can hardly contain your excitement when you join Mark in the living room. He’s turned off all of the lights so that only the tree, electric fireplace, and TV are illuminating the room. You spot the menu screen to  _ Elf _ on the TV, pleased that he stayed true to his ( _ your _ ) word. 

“You’re the best,” you chime, plopping yourself down on the couch next to him. “I just love ya,” you ruffle his hair, accepting his lips when he leans forward to receive yours. 

“I like you in that sweatshirt,” he tugs at the sleeve lightly, kissing you once more. “‘t’s sexy.”

“Thanks,” you say. And you refrain from rolling your eyes, because it must’ve been at least 20 years old by the time you had stolen it from your mom, but the fact that he found it sexy  _ did _ make you warm a bit inside.

You start the movie while he dishes out the pizza, tucking your legs under your thighs as you take the plate from him, almost too happy to eat. You try your best to stay focused on the movie, but you keep a lookout on the bay window near the couch, hoping to catch the first flakes as they begin to fall from the sky. You pray that the weatherman wasn’t wrong - all of your excitement would be for nothing if it didn’t snow.

It was nearing the end of the movie before the snow began to fall. You jumped up from the couch, scaring Mark, who had accidentally nodded off. 

“Oh, my gosh!” you cheered, nearly knocking over the Christmas tree in the wake of your outburst. “Look! It’s snowing!” you point out the window as if Mark can’t see the large, puffy snowflakes from where he was sitting. “There’s so much of it!”

You want to cheer - you want to actually  _ clap _ at the first snowfall - but you refrain, choosing to stare wide-eyed at the spectacle instead, watching as each snowflake spiraled down to the frozen ground, finding a new home in the grass that had been waiting for its arrival for weeks. Mesmerized, your head jerks to your boyfriend as he joins you at the window, wrapping his arms around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder. 

“I love it,” you whisper, placing a sweatshirt-covered palm on his cheek. “It’s beautiful.”

As much as he loves watching the snowfall - he always thought it made the world new again - he loves watching  _ you _ watch it more. Your childlike approach to nearly everything during the holidays warmed his heart as the two of you stood at the window in your matching pajamas, witness to the first covering of snow the season had to offer.

“You get your white Christmas after all,” he smiles, kissing your temple.

“Merry white Christmas,” you grin.

  
“Merry white Christmas, baby.”


	8. Winter Wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❊ In the meadow we can build a snowman / And pretend that he is Parson Brown / He’ll say, “Are you married?” / We’ll say, “No, man! But you can do the job while you’re in town.” / Later on, we’ll conspire, as we dream by the fire / To face unafraid, the plans that we made / Walkin’ in a winter wonderland ❊

“If you do it, I will  _ kill you _ !” you scream, ducking behind what could be the largest homemade snowman you’ve ever seen. “I’m moving back to California and I’m taking the Egyptian cotton sheets!”

“Oh, no, you’re not!” Mark yells back, two perfectly-packed snowballs in either hand. “You’re gonna come out and take these balls to the face like a man!”

You pause for a second before you hear his laughter bellow out from his chest, his reaction to his own words always ten times more hysterical than anything you could conjure up. You take his own distraction as an opportunity to run, not making it very far in the deep snow with Chica on your heels. You fall face-first into the fresh powder, boo-hooing when you fail to catch yourself with your hands.

“ _ Fuck! _ ” you grunt, lifting back up on your forearms, your hat askew and the tip of your nose covered in snow. Luckily, you missed plummeting your entire face into the ground and only suffered a dusting of flakes to the face. Behind you, Mark laughs even harder than before, the snowballs in his hands falling back down to the pile he had manifested.

It all started when you woke him up this morning, ready to go assess the accumulation your town had acquired overnight. With nearly a foot of snow on the ground, it was impossible to say no to an hour or two of play after working on clearing the snow from the driveway and walk up to the porch. While Mark used the snowblower in the driveway, you shoveled the sidewalk and pathways, not minding that he got the easier job out of the two of you.

You suggested, after going inside for a cup of coffee and some breakfast to warm up, that the two of you make a snowman. Mark had instantly obliged, never one to deny a challenge. Always wanting to take everything to the extreme, he announced that the pair of you would be making the biggest snowman possible. It was a two-person job to roll the three parts necessary to build it, the bottom portion requiring you to dig your elbows into the snow and push as hard as you could to get it to the size Mark wanted. During the process of rolling the middle snowball - snow _ boulder, _ as it were - Chica had begun to take chunks out of the base of the snowman. Mark nearly had a meltdown when he caught her, explaining to her that it was against the rules to eat new members of the family, regardless of how far along their assembly was.

You guffawed when he broke out the step-ladder from the garage to attach the head of the snowman. You stood behind him, terrified he would fall back and knock himself out (“On  _ what _ ? The freshly-fallen snow? I’m not made of glass, y’know!”). You held handfuls of snow for him to fill-in the gaps between the head and the center, as he wanted to make sure the snowman was built for longevity.

In true Mark fashion, you were then expected to take a slew of photos of him standing next to the finished product. He convinced you to appear in a fw of them, even setting up a tripod so he could get the four of you - Chica and Frosty included - in the frame. Later, you smiled after you saw the shot he had chosen to post to his Instagram. You were on one side of the snowman and he was on the other, both flexing; Chica was in the middle, her nose covered in snow and her head tilted to the side. He captioned it with lyrics from Winter Wonderland, which seemed perfectly fitting, considering your yard had turned into just that overnight.

And, naturally, Mark had turned your innocent fun into an all-out war after he had shoved a handful of snow down the back of your coat, laugh maniacally as he ran away faster than you could catch him.

“Why?!” you yell in shock, whipping around to see where he had gone. Chica runs after him, leaping through the snow as she nips at the peaks and valleys along the way. “Mark! Don’t do that!”

He laughs again, jumping to the other side of the garage so he’s out of your line of vision. You figure you have two options at this point: pout and go inside, refusing to talk to him for the rest of the evening for being mean, or, you could retaliate.

Retaliation would be sweeter, you thought. Instant gratification -- a chance to get even. And you liked getting even.

However, retaliation was hard work. With snow hitting the middle of your shin, it was difficult to walk in, and with layers of clothing beneath your ski pants and coat, your movement was limited. You ran out of breath quickly due to the cold air, and being smaller than your enemy, your size was a disadvantage in this battle. After throwing densely-packed snowballs at one another for ten minutes, you gave up. You waved your metaphorical white flag in the air, huffing and puffing behind the snowman for good measure.

That’s when Mark stood in front of you with two snowballs, still ready to fight.

“It’s not funny,” you whine, climbing to your feet. “It’s your fault!”

He continues to laugh on the ground, his hat nearly falling off of the crown of his head. You roll your eyes, brushing the snow off the front of you. Chica laps at Mark’s face, licking the tears that had begun to fall, as you stomp over to him.

“I’m going inside for lunch,” you nudge him with your boot. “I’m making grilled cheese and tomato soup. But you’re gonna have to grovel if you want to join me.”

You leave him out in the yard and make your way inside, Chica running after you. You make sure to wipe all of the snow from her paws and coat before she’s allowed into the rest of the house. After you’ve taken care of her, you strip yourself of the heavy snow clothes and hang them to dry in the laundry room off of the garage. Once you make your way into the kitchen, you’re surprised Mark hasn’t come inside to join you, but you set to work making two helpings of lunch anyway.

Mark makes his way inside just as you’re done with the first sandwich, walking into the kitchen with bare feet once he’s rid himself of his outdoor wardrobe, as well. 

“‘M sorry,” he says, coming up behind you at the stove. “‘M sorry that I inadvertently made you fall ‘n’ ‘m sorry that I laughed so hard about it,” he apologizes with a slight smile playing at his lips, and you can tell he’s not really sorry. 

It’s hard to stay mad at him when the situation was genuinely funny, you toppling over in the snow in an attempt to escape his attack, especially when he comes inside with damp hair, rosy cheeks, and the best puppy-eyes he can muster. You turn to him and laugh, patting his cheek with your fingertips. “It’s okay,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not  _ actually _ mad.”

For the rest of the day, you catch Mark looking out the various windows in your house at the snowman, nodding his head as if silent affirming his masterpiece to himself. It makes you laugh, and you wonder if he’s ever going to grow up.

  
You certainly hoped not, anyway.


	9. Sleigh Ride*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❊ Our cheeks are nice and rosy / And comfy cozy are we / We’re snuggled up together / Like two birds of a feather would be / Let’s take the road before us / And sing a chorus or two / Come on, it’s lovely weather / For a sleigh ride together with you ❊

You loved your coworkers - you really did. You all got along a large majority of the time, often finding yourselves out to dinner, celebrating the various accolades individuals in your company had received. It was just that, when you were on vacation, you preferred to stay as far away from them as possible. You saw them nearly every day at work anyway, right? Why did you have to come together for a Christmas party in the biggest ballrooms of the fanciest hotel in town? 

But, you decided that it was wholly necessary for you to go. If you didn’t show up, it would look bad, and you had told everyone you would go and  _ yes, _ you would bring Mark. The older ladies in your department had a certain infatuation with him that began after you displayed a framed picture of the two of you on your desk, and once they met him at the company Christmas party two years ago, it had turned into an all-out obsession. They were constantly asking about him, wondering how he was, always joking about how they expected an invitation to your wedding, even though you weren’t even engaged yet.

You felt like you were third-wheeling on an awkward date as coworkers came up to the two of you, one at a time, striking up conversations with Mark.  _ How is that video stuff going for you?  _ they would ask.  _ How many friends do you have on that website now?  _ Not understanding that YouTube was more than just “video stuff” and that his millions of subscribers weren’t necessarily close friends. It was like explaining Mark’s occupation to your grandmother, except it was every fifteen minutes with a different coworker. You couldn’t blame them, though. A majority of them were in their early sixties, ready to retire, and the extent of their technical knowledge was creating a spreadsheet in Excel. The fact that your boyfriend made a living from talking to a camera and uploading the footage for the world to see was over their heads, something that was more endearing than frustrating to you.

And although you looked at the older women in your office as motherly figures, you would’ve preferred to have been included in the conversation, rather than standing awkwardly next to Mark as your coworkers gushed over how handsome he was and how great of a boyfriend he must be in order for you to have moved across the country with him. He always kept one hand at the small of your back, trying to include you in every bit of the conversation he could, and when you smiled at Linda and Shirley and Maryanne with tight lips and a hint of sarcasm in your eyes, he would squeeze your hip, silently encouraging you to be a bit nicer.

“I need another drink,” you interrupt Barb, the head secretary of your company. “You two need anything?” you gesture between your boyfriend and the woman dressed, unironically, in a sweater adorned with snowmen and jingle bells.

“Oh, no, honey,” Barb places a gentle hand on your forearm. “One drink is enough for me. Any more and I’ll get heartburn!” she laughs a little too hard at your own joke, and you make a concerted effort to laugh along with her so Mark doesn’t say you were a little harsh later on.

“Mark?” you ask, a smile that’s a little too wide plastered on your face.

“I’ll take another beer,” he smiles back at you. “Thanks, sweets.”

You take the empty pint glass from his hand, accepting a kiss on the cheek before making your way to the open bar. You hear Barb coo at how  _ adorable _ he is, calling you by such a  _ cute _ name and giving you a  _ precious _ kiss on the cheek before you left. You weren’t having a good time, to say the least. You’d spent an hour getting ready, debating on whether or not you should wear a navy blue dress so you could match with Mark’s navy blue suit, or a simple shimmery nude dress that went with anything. Your hair wasn’t cooperating, your eyeliner had smudged, and you’d forgotten that the heels you wanted to wear had a scuff on the side. Nothing about the evening had started out right, but when you saw Mark in his suit, your heart softened a bit. If you  _ had _ to go to a company party, the blow was lessened by your ever-handsome date.

You physically shake off the sheen of annoyance, reminding yourself that all of the women mean well. They only see him a couple of times a year, and they’re always talking about how you’re like a daughter to them, but  _ goddamn _ \- could you enjoy a night out with your boyfriend? You hadn’t said more than a few words to him the entire evening. You weren’t looking forward to the event to begin with, and now all you wanted was to go home.

You’re surprised when Mark joins you in line, kissing you once more on the cheek for good measure. You smile briefly at him before having to order your drinks.

“You okay?” he asks while the bartender pours your beers.

“Yeah,” you nod unconvincingly. “Just annoyed. I know I shouldn’t be, but I didn’t bring you here so the ladies from the office - who I consider to be my Work Moms, by the way - can oogle you.”

“Oh,” Mark nods. “So you’re jealous, is all.”

“ _ What _ ?” you place three single dollar bills in the tip jar when the bartender places both pints of lager on the counter in front of you. He nods in thanks, and you smile politely before handing Mark his beer. “I’m not  _ jealous _ ,” you chide, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. 

“All right,” he shrugs while you make your way back to your assigned table. “You seem a little jealous, is all.”

“What do I have to be jealous of?” you inquire, plopping down harshly onto the chair that’s been reserved for you. “Barbara and her embroidered sweater? Linda and her eighties bangs? Shirley and her osteoporosis?” you take a gulp of your beer before setting it on the table. “ _ No _ , I’m not  _ jealous _ . I’m annoyed that I even had to come here in the first place.”

“Okay, okay,” Mark sits down beside you with his arms up. “Let’s get something to eat. Maybe you’ll feel better after that.”

“Yeah,” you nod, taking another sip of beer. “ _ Maybe _ .”

\---

After another round of Linda and Shirley tag-teaming Mark, assuming he had nothing better to do but answer their questions about how YouTube works ( _ So you get paid for every friend? You make seventeen million dollars a year? _ ), insisting that he come around the office more ( _ Your presence is always appreciated! _ ), and asking what his favorite place to shop was ( _ I think my son, who is a couple years older than you, would just love that tie for Christmas! _ ), you convinced him to go home before it even struck 9 o’clock.

You immediately walked up to your bedroom when you got home, looking through your phone while you waited for Mark to let Chica out. When he joins you, he can’t help but smile at the frown on your face.

“Are you jealous?” he smirks, asking again. “Are you  _ jealous _ of the crushes your nearly-retired coworkers have on me?” he slides the fingers into the back of your hair, hoping to take the edge off a bit.

“ _ No,  _ I told you I’m not!” you snap, averting your eyes from his gaze. “‘s just annoying, is all. Hardly got to talk to you all night. I bring my boyfriend out for a nice evening and I can barely get a word in?  _ Oh, Mark. You’re so adorable. She’s so lucky to have you _ ,” you imitate Barb, your voice nasally while you roll your eyes. You allow him to pull you closer as he stifles his laughter. “Yeah, okay.”

“You’re totally jealous,” Mark bursts out laughing, eyes wide as he exposes his teeth. “Admit it!”

“Not  _ jealous _ ,” you sneer. “Just annoyed.”

“Okay, baby,” he nods in pseudo-agreeance, rubbing his fingertips against your scalp. “I believe you.” And for a second, he sounds genuine, but the bubbling laughter beneath his lips gives him away.

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes again, pulling him closer to you by the necktie, putting all of your frustration into peppering kisses across his jawline as you work on unknotting the silk fabric around his neck. 

He continues to giggle up until you swipe your tongue across the sensitive area by his ear, emitting a groan instead of a laugh when you throw his tie to the floor. You smirk against his skin, unbuttoning the oxford shirt beneath his suit jacket and running your hands down his chest. You wish he hadn’t dressed so nicely for the party - although formal, having an undershirt beneath his button-down barred you from easy-access to his chest. Mark aids you in your endeavors, shrugging off both his jacket and shirt while you bend down to your knees, stretching your arms up his torso as you eye the bulge in his navy pants.

“Whoa, whoa,  _ whoa _ ,” he shakes his head, grabbing your wrists. “Get back up here, little lady. I’m not done with you yet.”  

You groan, raising back up to him, lifting the hem of his white undershirt as you do so. You lift it off of him, pleased to be met with his perpetually caramel skin beneath. He takes your mouth onto his, finding the nape of your neck and guiding you to him, his warm mouth enveloping yours as your palms explore his chest. You sigh, melting into him, always ready to accept the way his lips glide over yours. He tilts your head up further, presses his mouth deeper into yours as his tongue slides across your lower lip. He softly sucks on the velvety skin found there, firmly pressing into you as you respond to his touch. 

A smooth rhythm quickly finds itself between the two of you, his hand guiding you on top of his mouth by your neck, and you try your hardest - you really,  _ really _ do - not to let out soft moans into his mouth, but he’s  _ so _ good and you’re  _ so _ willing, you can’t help yourself. You want to let him know how much he impacts you - how much you enjoy having him pressed against you.

“Need to,” you mutter against his lips, and as much as it pains you to break away from him, you pull away and catch your breath, your eyes wild and chest heaving.

“Need to what?” Mark asks, his eyes just as wild, if not moreso.

“Your cock,” you whisper, bending down to your knees again, “need your cock.”

He groans, something guttural from deep within his chest, as you unbuckle the belt around his waist. Your mouth is watering at the sight of how ready he is for you when you drag his boxer briefs down his muscular thighs and down to his feet. He takes a shaky step forward, kicking the discarded clothes behind him, as you move so he can sit on the edge of the bed.

You move to unzip your dress, but he stops your hands, insisting that you keep it on. You smile devilishly, crawling closer to him, finally resting between his knees. You jerk him with your hand first, catching him by surprise, making him buck up into you. You start off slow, making eye contact with him as the soft skin of your hand meets the soft skin of his dick, and he furrows his brow before propping himself up on his elbows so he can see everything you’re doing.

“That nice?” you ask, and you can guess his answer before he even nods his head. 

“Mm-hmm,” he squeezes his eyes shut as you swipe the pad of your thumb over the head, making the surface slick beneath your fingers.

While Mark bites his lip, he urges you to continue the flicking of your wrist up and down on his dick, his need growing for you with each stroke. You watch his core intently, his muscles contracting and quivering beneath his skin as he breathes in and out of his nose in quick puffs. You smile, squeezing just below the head of his cock before sliding your palm over him.

You feel him grow harder in your hand, pulsing quickly every time you increase the pressure of your hand on his shaft. Everything he tries to say gets muffled by groans, and when you lick your lips, he knows he can’t possibly make fun of you for being jealous anymore. He knows what you’re about to do, and,  _ fuck _ \- if this is the result of you getting jealous, then so be it. 

“Gonna suck you off, baby,” you warn before kissing up the thick vein on the underside of his dick. “Gonna make you feel so good.” You swear you hear him whimper at your words, and in your mind, you know you’ve won.

You start with small licks around the head, slowly making your way down the length of him, always needing to build up courage to attempt taking all of him in your mouth at once. He knows he’s bigger than normal - that it’s difficult for you to take him all - but whatever you’re doing feels so damn good, he doesn’t care if you get him down your throat or not. He lifts up so he can reach you, placing a gentle hand on the back of your head for encouragement while he moans out your name in response to you sucking just above his balls.

He tastes good - tangy and sweet all at once - but you’re familiar with that. You moan around him when you take the head of him fully, sucking and licking at the sensitive skin. He buckles, pulsing towards you, groaning and muttering all the while. He tenses as you open your mouth to take more of him, lowering so that you can accommodate his thickness and length. 

You twist your mouth and hand in succession, compensating for what you can’t fully take in your mouth. Mark watches you, more turned on than he can remember, as you bob your head up and down, swiping your hand up and over where your mouth has just been, gasping around his cock as you work to fit all of him in. You’re insatiable, it seems, wanting to milk him for all he’s worth, and it’s a blissful thing to be privy to, he thinks. 

You’re hungry for his release - starving to know that you can pull a reaction out of him like nobody else. You close your eyes, attempting to take him as far as your throat will allow, and when Mark’s grip in your hair tightens and he growls beneath you, there’s a certain sense of pride that falls over you. You resist the urge to swallow and keep your mouth around him for as long as you can, gasping for air as he pops out of your mouth. You smile widely at him, jerking him off with both hands while you catch your breath, his cock slick and easy to navigate thanks to your spit.

“Goddamnit, baby,” he hisses, yanking your hair. “So fuckin’ good,” he thrusts into your hands, groaning and biting down on his lower lip.

“Yeah?” you question, licking the drop of precum that has pebbled at the slit of him. “You like that?”

“Fuckin’ Christ Almighty,” he closes his eyes while you lick at the groove on the underside of the head of his cock with the tip of your tongue. 

You smile, pleased with yourself, and go back in for more. Eager to please, you swallow around him, your throat contracting and making room for him each time you take him in your mouth. He can feel the vibrations of your moans down his shaft, causing him to grunt and call out, torn between clamping his eyes shut with ecstasy and watching your every move. He wants to keep up the charade - he could watch you do this for the rest of your life, really - but he can’t help but want to give in to the release he’s just to the edge of.

“Gonna come if you keep doin’ that,” he warns as you grip his balls with one hand, continuing your assault with your mouth. “Gonna make me come, baby.”

You moan, nodding a bit as encouragement, not letting up. You suck harder, hollowing your cheeks around his cock as you jerk him off with one hand and fondle his balls with the other. He lifts up on the heel of his hand as he breathily warns you one last time, shooting his load into your mouth while he jerks up and into you, his moans nearing screams as you lap at every last drop.

You lick at him one final time as his body goes slack. Both of you try to catch your breath, and when you lift up onto your feet, you use his knees to stabilize your wobbly posture. 

“Should get you jealous more often,” Mark smiles breathlessly, glistening with sweat beneath you.

  
“M’not jealous,” you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, playfully kicking at his shins. “M’just marking my territory.”


	10. Let it Snow!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❊ Oh, the weather outside is frightful / But the fire is so delightful / And since we’ve no place to go / Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow / It doesn’t show signs of stopping / And I’ve brought some corn for popping / The lights are turned way down low / Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow ❊

“That’s not a word!” you bridle, shaking your head at the Scrabble board. “You can’t just go adding letters to my words to try and make better words. It’s  _ not _ a word!”

“I have all consonants!” Mark defends himself, gesturing towards his selection. “Let me have this one!”

“ _ No! _ ” you scoff, flicking the W tile off of the beginning of “ranch” - a word you were proud to have played a few turns ago. “ _ Wranch _ is not a word - who do you think you are?!”

He sighs, placing the W back on his tray of letters he had to work with. Sipping contentedly on your wine, you raise an eyebrow at him as he examines his options. You always went easy on your opponents when playing Scrabble, but you still always won. It was freakish, how good you were at the game. And you weren’t positive where it came from, either. It was just one of those things - you  _ never _ lost a game of Scrabble, no matter who you were playing against. Within the five years of dating him, Mark had never won a game against you, but he never gave up - in fact, tonight, he was the one to suggest the game after reading the weather report.

There would be snow, and lots of it. Much like the previous storm, you had geared yourself up for another dumping of snow - this time, acquiring up to five inches on top of what Ohio had gotten a couple of days earlier. However, this time, you were free to fully enjoy staying in, as your vacation had started the minute you got out of work today. While you made a simple dinner of spaghetti and meat sauce, Mark asked if you wanted to make tonight a game night and play Scrabble in the living room while you waited out the storm. 

“Are you sure?” you asked, stirring the pot of noodles.

“Of course,” he nodded from his spot at the island. “I’m feeling good about my chances tonight. I’m feeling  _ great _ .”

You hesitantly agreed, not unsure that losing against you for the hundredth time would send him into a state of poutiness and a slight stomping of the feet around the house for the next two days. So, you took it especially easy on him, not complaining when his turns went on for more than ten minutes, taking a bit of extra time on your own turns, allowing him to think that you didn’t know what the best move would be. And, really, it wasn’t your fault that you always seemed to land on double-word and triple-letter scores, but you tried your best to avoid them tonight, hoping that Mark would - by some Christmas miracle - win against you without realizing you’d been holding back.

“You could play something off of that E,” you suggest nonchalantly. “Maybe make a three-letter word with some of the consonants you’ve got?”

He glances up at you through the hair falling in his eyes as if to say  _ Can it, sister. I’ve got this handled _ . You shrug your shoulders and occupy yourself with counting all of the ornaments on the tree for the third time that night. You’d gotten different numbers each time, which probably had more to do with the wine you were drinking and less to do with your counting skills, overall. When you had counted the ugly sweater ornament more than once, you gave up and focused your attention on the snow falling heavily outside, loving how there were no cars on the road, the streets silent with the thickness of snow.

Patiently, you avoided glancing the playboard, not wanting to give yourself any advantage over Mark, whose brow was knitted in concentration and a tinge of frustration, you were sure. You leaned back against the couch, crossing and uncrossing your legs, placing your wine glass back onto the coffee table next to your unused letters. When he finally plays his word, you nod in approval, looking over your own letters to see if you could come up with a word that would score  _ under _ fifteen points. 

“You’re like, a word away from winning,” Mark points out, his chin resting on his palm. 

“That’s not true,” you shake your head, looking over the board at your options. “I only have a couple of moves I can do. You’d have plenty of chances to overtake my score.”

“It’s been an hour and a half,” his words are muddled against his hand. “‘m not gonna win. Don’t know why I even tried. Shoulda just played you in Mario Kart. I  _ know _ I can beat you in that.”

“Babe,” you frown, crawling around the other side of the coffee table over to him.

He lets you move his hand so that you have access to his lap, and when you slide into it, he smiles a bit. You rub his shoulders, kissing his cheeks in an attempt to brighten his mood. You can tell he’s not all that mad at you when he leans slightly forward to capture your lips in a short kiss.

“Sorry, Moo,” you say against his lips. “Please don’t be sad.”

“‘m not sad,” he grasps your hips, squeezing them in response. “Just kinda pissed my girlfriend is ten times smarter than I am. I coulda been an engineer, y’know,” he frowns.

“Being good at Scrabble does not mean I’m smarter than you are,” you chuckle, swiping strands of hair off of his forehead. “You’re better at a lot of stuff than I am,” you offer, smoothing the pieces of hair behind his ears. “Like playing video games, and cooking, and singing, and you’re great with numbers,” you list off his talents on your fingers, one by one. “And whenever I have an issue with my laptop, I always come to you before I ask the tech department at work, because I know you’ll fix it way better than they could.”

Mark grins at your gesture, resting his forehead on your shoulder while he rubs up and down your sides. It  _ does _ make him feel better, you listing off all the stuff you think he’s better at than you are - it makes him feel useful after the severe asskicking he just received.

“How about we watch another movie while the storm passes again, hmm?” you suggest, lacing your fingers through his. “Or we could watch another episode of  _ Black Mirror _ ? Their fucked-up lives will make us feel better about our shortcomings, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” he nods, accepting your help up off the floor. “But, for the record,” he begins, playfully smacking at your behind, “wranch  _ is _ a word, if we’re going by Urban Dictionary’s definition.”

You snicker, rolling your eyes. “The day I let you win a game of Scrabble with words from Urban Dictionary is the day I roll over and die.”


End file.
